“Now let us hope someone saves us,” Banokles added.
“What do you mean?” the woman demanded.
“We are on a small island,” Banokles replied. “We have no gold and no ship. Angry men will come looking for us tomorrow. Now, we are great warriors, Kalliades and I. None better. Well…not now that Argurios is dead. Between us I reckon we could survive against seven or eight warriors. There are around sixty fighting men in the pirate crews. And not one soft-bellied puker among them.”
“You have no plan of escape?”
“Oh, I do not make plans, woman. I drink, I whore, I fight. Kalliades makes plans.”
“Then you are both fools,” she said. “You have brought about your doom.”
“Where I come from slaves are respectful,” Banokles said, an edge of anger in his voice.
“I am no man’s slave!”
“Have the blows to your head knocked all sense from you? Your craft was taken at sea. It carried no banner and no safe conduct. You were captured, and now the pirates own you. Therefore, you are a slave according to the laws of gods and men.”
“Then I piss on the laws of gods and men!”
“Be calm, both of you!” Kalliades ordered. “Where were you sailing to?” he asked her.
“I was heading for Kios.”
“You have family there?”
“No. I had some wealth on the boat, gems and trinkets of gold. I was hoping to find passage on a ship to Troy. The pirates took everything. And more.” She rubbed at her face, scrubbing away at the dried blood.
“There is a stream over there,” Kalliades said. “You could wash your face.”
The woman hesitated. “Then I am not your prisoner?” she asked at last.
“No. You are free to do as you please.”
She stared hard at Kalliades, then at Banokles. “And you did not help me in order to make me your slave or to sell me to others?”
“No,” Kalliades told her.
She seemed to relax then but continued to hold the dagger in a tight fist. “If what you say is true, I should…thank you both,” she said, struggling with the words.
“Oh, don’t thank me,” Banokles said. “I would have let you die.”
CHAPTER TWO
THE SWORD OF ARGURIOS
Kalliades dozed for a while in the cave mouth, his head resting against the rock wall. Banokles was snoring loudly and occasionally muttering in his sleep.
In the predawn Kalliades left the cave and walked to the stream. Kneeling by the bank, he splashed his face, then ran his wet fingers through his close-cropped black hair.
He saw the woman leave the cave. She, too, wandered down to the stream. Tall and slender, she walked with her head high, her movements graceful, like a Kretan dancer. She was not a runaway slave, Kalliades knew. Slaves learned to walk with their heads down, their posture submissive. He did not speak but watched her as she washed the dried blood from her face and arms. Her face was still swollen, and there were bruises around her eyes. Even without the swelling she would not be pretty, he thought. Her face was strong and angular, her brows thick, her nose too prominent. It was a stern face and one that he guessed was a stranger to laughter even in better times.
When she had cleaned herself, she lifted the dagger. For a heartbeat Kalliades thought she was going to cut her own throat. Then she grabbed a length of her blond hair and sawed the dagger through it. The warrior sat silently as she continued to hack at her hair, tossing handfuls to the rocks. Kalliades was mystified. There was no expression on her face, no anger showing. When she had finished, she leaned forward and rubbed her hands across her scalp, shaking loose hairs from her head.
Finally she stepped from the stream and sat down a little way from him. “Aiding me was not wise,” she said.
“I am not a wise man.”
The sky began to lighten, and from where they sat they could see fields covered with thousands of blue flowers. The woman stared at them, and Kalliades saw her expression soften. “It is as if the color of the sky has leached into the earth,” she said softly. “Who would have thought that such beautiful plants could grow in such an arid place? Do you know what they are?”
“They are flax,” he said. “The linen of your tunic came from such plants.”
“How is it turned to cloth?” she asked. Kalliades stared out over the flax fields, remembering the days of his childhood, when he and his little sisters worked the fields of King Nestor, tearing the plants up by the roots, removing the seeds that would be used for medicinal oils or the sealing of timbers, placing the stems in the running water of the stream to rot. “Do you know?” she prompted him.
“Yes, I know.” And he told her of the backbreaking labor of children and women gathering the plants, retting the stems, then, once they had rotted and been left to dry, beating them with wooden hammers. Then the children would sit in the hot sunshine, scraping the stems, removing the last of the wood. After that came the hackling, the exposed fibers being drawn again and again through ever finer combs. Even as he told her of the process, Kalliades found himself wondering at the resilience of women. Despite all she had been through and what probably would lie ahead, she seemed fascinated by this ancient skill. Then he looked into her pale eyes and saw that the interest was merely superficial. Beneath it there was tension and fear. They sat in silence for a while. Then he glanced at her, and their eyes met. “We will stand to the death to prevent them from taking you again. On this you have my oath.”
The woman did not reply, and Kalliades knew she did not believe him. Why should she? he wondered.
As he spoke, Banokles came strolling from the cave, halted at a nearby tree, and raised his tunic. Then he began to urinate with rare gusto, stepping back and aiming the jet of water as high up the trunk as possible.
“What is he doing?” the woman asked.
“He is very proud of the fact that not a man he ever met could piss as high as he can.”
“Why would they want to?”
Kalliades laughed. “You have obviously not spent long in the company of men.” He cursed inwardly as her expression hardened. “A stupid remark,” he said swiftly. “I apologize for it.”
“No need,” she said, forcing a smile. “And I will not be broken by what happened. It is not the first time I have been raped. I tell you this, though: To be raped by strangers is less vile than to be abused by those you have trusted and loved.” Taking a deep breath, she transferred her gaze back to the fields of blue flowers.
“What is your name?”
“When I was a child, they called me Piria. That is what I will use today.”
Banokles walked over to where they sat and slumped down beside Kalliades. He looked at the woman. “That’s an ugly haircut,” he said. “Did you have lice?” Piria ignored him and looked away. Banokles turned his attention to Kalliades. “I’m hungry enough to chew bark off a tree. What say we walk down into the settlement, kill every cowson who comes against us, and find something to eat?”
“I can see why you are not the one who makes plans,” Piria said.
Banokles scowled at her. “With a tongue like that you’ll never find a husband,” he said.
“May those words float to the ears of the Great Goddess,” she said bitterly. “Let Hera make them true!”
Kalliades walked away from them and stood by a twisted tree. From there he could see down over the flax fields to the distant settlement. People were already moving, women and youngsters preparing to work the fields. There was no sign yet of the pirate crew. Behind him he could hear Banokles and the woman bickering.
Troy was where it all had gone wrong, he decided. Before that doomed enterprise he had been considered a fine warrior and a future captain of men. And he had been proud to be selected for the raid on the city. Only the elite had been considered.
It should have been a resounding success, with plunder for all. Hektor, the great Trojan warrior, had been slain in battle, and a rebellious Trojan force would attac
k the palace, killing King Priam and his other sons. Mykene warriors would follow them in, finishing off any loyal soldiers. The new ruler, his allegiance pledged to the Mykene king, Agamemnon, would reward them royally.
The plan was perfect. Save for three vital elements.
First, the general Agamemnon placed in charge of the raid was a coward named Kolanos, a cruel, malevolent man who had used lies and deceit to bring about the downfall of a legendary Mykene hero. Second, that hero—the great Argurios—had been at the time of the raid in Priam’s palace and had fought to the death to hold the last stairway. And third, Hektor was not dead and had returned in time to lead a force against the Mykene rear. The prospect of victory and riches had vanished. Only the certainty of defeat and death had remained.
The gutless Kolanos had tried to bargain with King Priam, offering to give all Mykene plans to the Trojan king in return for his life. Amazingly, Priam had refused. To honor Argurios, who had died defending him, Priam freed the surviving Mykene, allowing them to return to their ships, along with Kolanos. He had asked only one thing in return: that he might hear Kolanos scream as the ships sailed away.
And he had screamed. The furious survivors had hacked him to pieces even before the galleys had cleared the entrance to the bay.
The journey home had been without incident, and the men, though demoralized by defeat, had been happy to be alive. Back in Mykene they were greeted with scorn, for they had failed in what they had set out to achieve. Worse was to follow.
Kalliades shivered as he recalled how three of the king’s men had burst into his house and sprung upon him, pinning his arms. One had yanked his head back, and then Kleitos, aide to Agamemnon and kinsman to the dead Kolanos, had stepped forward, a thin-bladed dagger in his hand.
“Did you think you were beyond the king’s justice?” Kleitos had said. “Did you think you would be forgiven for killing my brother?”
“Kolanos was a traitor who tried to sell us all. He was just like you: brave when surrounded by soldiers and gutless when faced with battle and death. Go on, kill me. Anything would be better than smelling your stinking breath.”
Kleitos had laughed then, and a cold fear had seeped into Kalliades’ bones.
“Kill you? No, Kalliades. Agamemnon King has ordered you to be punished, not killed immediately. No warrior’s death for you. No. I am to put out your eyes, then cut off your fingers. I will leave you your thumbs so that you can gather a little food from beneath the tables of better men.”
Even now the memory was enough to make Kalliades sick with fear.
The thin-bladed knife had been slowly raised, the point creeping toward his left eye.
Then the door had crashed in, and Banokles had surged into the room. A huge fist had hammered into Kleitos’ face, hurling him from his feet. Kalliades had torn himself clear of the startled men holding him. The fight that followed had been brutal and short. Banokles had broken the neck of one soldier. Kalliades had struck the second, forcing him back, giving himself time to draw his dagger and slash it across the soldier’s throat.
Then Kalliades and Banokles had run from the house to the nearby paddock meadow, stolen two horses, and ridden from the settlement.
Agamemnon later called it the Night of the Lion’s Justice. Forty of the men who had survived the attack on Troy were murdered that night; others had their right hands cut off. Kalliades and Banokles were declared fugitives, and golden gifts were offered to any who captured or slew them.
Kalliades gave a rueful smile. Now, having escaped skilled assassins, highly trained soldiers, and doughty warriors seeking bounty, here they were, waiting to be killed by the scum of the sea.
Piria sat with the huge warrior, her manner outwardly calm, her heart beating wildly. It seemed to her that a frightened sparrow was caged within her breast, fluttering madly, seeking escape. She had known fear before, yet always she had conquered it with a surge of anger. Not so now.
The day before had been brutal, but she had been filled with fury and then desperation as the pirate crew had overwhelmed her. The savage blows and the piercing pain somehow had rendered her fearless. Piria had ceased to struggle, endured the torment, and waited for her moment. When it came, she had felt a surging sense of triumph as she watched the pirate’s blood spraying from his severed jugular, his open, astonished eyes above her. He had struggled briefly, but she had held him close, feeling his heart beat against her chest. Then the beating had slowed and stopped. Finally she had pushed his body from her and slipped away into the shadows.
Only then did the real terror strike her. Lost and alone on a bleak island, she felt her courage melting away. She ran to a rocky hillside and crouched down behind an outcrop of stone. At some point, though she had no inkling of when it started, she found she was sobbing. Her limbs trembled, and she lay down on the hard ground, her knees drawn up, her arms shielding her face, as if expecting a fresh attack. In the bleakness of her despair she heard the words of the First Priestess lashing her: “Arrogant girl! You boast of your strength when it has never been tested. You sneer at the weakness of the women of the countryside when you have never suffered their distress. You are the daughter of a king, under whose shield you have lived protected. You are sister to a great warrior whose sword would cut the heads from those who offended you. How dare you criticize the women of the fields, whose lives depend on the whims of violent men?”
“I am sorry,” she whispered, her face pressed to the rock, though it was not the answer she had given when the First Priestess had railed at her. She could not remember now exactly what she had said, but it had been defiant and proud. As she had lain among the rocks, all pride had fled from her.
At last, exhausted, she had slept for a little, but the pain in her abused body had wakened her. Just in time, for she could hear footsteps on the hillside.
And she had run for her life, coming at last, her strength gone, to a small grove of trees. There she had expected to die. Instead two men had fought for her, then helped her to a cave high in the hills.
They had not raped her or offered any threat, yet her terror would not subside. She glanced at the man called Banokles. He was heavily muscled, his face brutish and coarse, his blue eyes unable to disguise the lust he felt as he stared at her. There was no defense against him save for the wall of contempt she had created. The small dagger Kalliades had given her would be useless against such a man. He would knock it from her grip and bear her down as the pirates on the ship had.
She swallowed hard, pushing the awful memories away, though it was beyond her skill to shut out the pain of her injuries, the bruising and cuts from punches and slaps, and the piercing of her body.
The big warrior was not looking at her but staring at the tall, slim young man standing some distance away by a twisted tree. She recalled his promise to stand by her, then anger flowed once more.
He is a pirate. He will betray you. All men are betrayers. Vile, lustful, and devoid of pity.
Yet he had vowed to protect her.
A man’s promises are like the whispers of a running stream. You can hear them, but they are meaningless sounds. That was what the First Priestess had said.
The large warrior moved to the stream, leaning forward to cup his hands in the water and drink. His movements were not graceful like his companion’s, but then, she reasoned, it must be difficult to bend in such heavy armor. The breastplate was well made, scores of bronze disks held in place by copper wire. Banokles splashed his face with water, then pushed his thick fingers through his long blond hair. Only then did Piria see that the upper part of his right ear was missing and a long white scar extended from the remains of the lobe down into his bearded chin. Banokles sat back and massaged his right biceps. Piria saw another scar there, vivid, red, and no more than a few months old.
He saw her looking at him, and his cold blue gaze met hers. Anxious to hold him at bay with words, she said: “Spear wound?”
“No. Sword. Straight through,” he told her, s
winging his body and showing her the back of his upper arm. “Thought it had crippled me for sure, but it has healed well.”
“Must have been a powerful man to drive a sword that deep.”
“It was,” Banokles said, pride in his voice. “None other than Argurios. The greatest Mykene warrior of all. Sword would have gone through my throat if I hadn’t slipped. As it was, it got stuck in my arm.” He turned and pointed to Kalliades. “That’s it there,” he said, pointing to the bronze weapon at Kalliades’ side. “The same sword made that big scar on Kalliades’ face. Very proud of that sword, Kalliades is.”
“Argurios? The man who held the bridge at Partha?”
“The very same. Great man.”
“And you were trying to kill him?”
“Of course I was trying to kill him. He was with the enemy. By the gods, I’d love to be known as the man who killed Argurios. I didn’t, though. Kolanos shot him with an arrow. An arrow! Bows are the weapons of cowards. Makes my stomach churn to think of it. Argurios was the reason they won. No doubt about it. We had the stench of defeat in our nostrils, but it was a Mykene who won the battle.”
“What battle was this?”
“In Troy. Would have made me rich. All that Trojan gold. Ah, well. Always another day.” Leaning back, he scratched his groin. “My stomach is beginning to think my throat’s been cut. I hope Kalliades comes up with a plan soon.”
“A plan to defeat two pirate crews?”
“He’ll think of something. He thinks a lot, does Kalliades. He’s really good at it. He got us out of Mykene lands even though they had hundreds of men searching for us. Outwitted them all. Well…had to kill a few, too. But mostly it was Kalliades’ planning.”
“Why were you being hunted?” she asked, not really caring about the answer but anxious to keep a conversation going until Kalliades returned.
“Mostly because we lost in Troy. Agamemnon King has no love for losers. Added to which we killed his general, Kolanos. Useless goat-shagging lump of cow turd he was. Ask me, we did Agamemnon a great favor. Anyway, killing Kolanos, which seemed a good idea at the time—and enjoyable, I must say—wasn’t greeted with acclaim back home. As far as they were concerned, we’d gone to war, lost, and then killed our general. Which, of course, was completely true. The fact that he was a gutless goat-shagging lump of cow turd got overlooked somehow. Three days after we got back Agamemnon King ordered the killers out. A lot of good men died that night. Still, we got away.”